


Purple

by contritum



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, but it goes by real fast, that ol classic shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contritum/pseuds/contritum
Summary: Pierre accidentally breaks his Mermaid's Pendant, and falls into a spiral of secrets trying to fix it.
Relationships: Caroline/Pierre (Stardew Valley), Caroline/Wizard | M. Rasmodius, Morris/Pierre (Stardew Valley)
Kudos: 33





	1. beginning

Pierre barely got home without passing out. In fact, he barely made it home at all. He was drunk, as per usual on a Friday night, and he was pissed off. Also as per usual on a Friday night. It certainly didn’t help that Caroline was asleep in bed by the time he got back, turned towards the wall, a pillow wedged under the small of her back and another blocking him from the rest of her upper body, like an insult carefully set up for him before he even got home.

He didn’t know why she still did it. He didn’t recall them even kissing in weeks. She knew full well that he would rather shoot himself than cuddle her right now. Or, at least, he hoped she knew.

He was tired. He could seethe in the morning when his head was clearer. Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed when something caught his eye. A glint of orange, from the blue-painted, carefully carved wooden box that sat perpetually on his nightstand, that he couldn’t, for the life of him, recall what it contained. He picked it up and flipped it open less than gingerly, only to see the pendant Caroline had slipped around his neck, what, 20 years ago? 

Yoba. He softened for a moment, in a way he wouldn’t when he was sober. He ran his finger along the edge of the shell. It was shiny, the ridges deepening shades of orange that blended into each other in harmony, only to swirl up into dark purple at the point of it. He used to wear it every day, but he guessed it was either practicality or a passive-aggressive quarrel that had provoked him to put it back in the box years back, and leave it there to collect dust, save for special occasions, like his and Caroline’s anniversary. Come to think of it, when was their anniversary? 

Pierre stood up for a moment, but his body didn’t cooperate, and he tripped over his own feet. The pendant flew out of his hand, and the spirits must have had a vendetta with him that day, because it dropped directly onto the corner of the dresser and shattered into dozens of little pieces, like one of those overly fragile pieces of elementary school pottery. 

He knelt over, and being so inebriated, realizing he had destroyed his pendant didn’t phase or alarm him. He calmly picked a few of the shards into his hand and tilted them around, watching the way the lamplight glinted off of the pieces at different angles.

Huh. The shell was all purple and shimmery inside, violet, like Abigail’s- his daughter’s- hair. He’d never noticed that before. The colors were beautiful, but they unnerved him, for a reason he couldn’t quite place, but rather one that curled up in his gut and sat there, sure and still as a stone. It made him nauseous. Though, maybe it was just the beer. 

Pierre quickly gathered the rest of the pieces into his palm drowsily, not wanting to look at them any longer. His glasses had fallen off of his face at some point, he didn’t notice. He tucked the purple shards back into the little blue box with more caution than he knew he possessed after a few drinks and fell asleep as soon as he hit the sheets.

When Pierre awoke the next morning, sunlight had already began to shoot into his eyes unrelentingly, the blaring indicator he had slept in like an idiot and would have to open late. Again. His head ached with dull pangs. Maybe he had a little too much last night. Oh, well. He took his annoyingly unpolished glasses off of the nightstand, where they had been carefully placed next to a glass of water and two aspirin, courtesy of Abigail. 

He swung himself out of bed, downing the aspirin like an old routine and pulling his jacket back over his shoulders, having fallen asleep in his clothes again. 

He made his way into the shop, only to find Abigail tending the counter in a professional-looking (compared to her usual attire), ironed out shirt, and couldn't help the small smile that crept into his face. Pierre slipped behind the counter and leaned next to his daughter, “You didn’t have to open by yourself, you know. You should’ve woken me up.” He tapped his fingers on the glass a little.

“You needed your sleep,” Abigail said, “I don’t mind. And, I’m 19, I can be responsible.” She cracked a smile, “Sometimes.” 

“No, I need to stop being irresponsible,” Pierre sighed, “This isn’t your job, you should be out doing your… teenage rebellion... things.” 

“My  _ what now _ ?” 

“Band practice, or egging Jojamart or something. Preferably the second one. Where’s your mother, by the way?”

“I dunno, she left early. Probably went to Marnie’s or something.” She shrugged, he nodded. There was a beat of silence, “Are… are you and Mom okay?” 

Pierre’s smile fell.

“Abby, that’s really nothing you need to worry about.” “But are you?” He sighed, “Of course, sweetie. We’re just going through a bit of a rough patch is all.” That was the understatement of the year. Abigail looked like she wanted to ask something again. She cast her blue gaze to the floor, the usual twinkle in her eye gone flat, muttering something along the lines of “I need to change” as she pushed past him.

It turned out to be quite a mundane day at the shop, Pierre’s only amusement being one of the farmers rushing in and ordering 50 grass pallets at once, for whatever unholy reason. Classic Z. For once, he was thankful for the lack of customers, because he had the time to do some thinking. He came to the conclusion that Abigail was right. He was also wondering if they were doing okay. He needed to try harder, if not for him or Caroline, for their daughter. So, he closed up a little early, after three, and waited for his wife to come home. She could stay out late, he knew that, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do, right? He was used to it at this point- Caroline waking up at the asscrack of dawn and leaving the house, not even giving him a chance to get out as much as a ‘good morning’ to her- PIERRE. DO NOT THINK LIKE THAT. YOU ARE BEING POSITIVE. It wasn’t Caroline’s fault she was a busy woman. She had friends. Maybe it was him that needed to get out more. He blamed most of this on himself, anyways. He had driven her away, and he needed to fix it. 

He didn’t plan on any big romantic gesture- just being affectionate was a good start. Maybe he should put on his pendant. That was a great idea, actually! He went to retrieve the box, and it was a little odd that it wasn’t latched, but it hadn’t been the first time he had forgotten to close it. Pierre’s heart dropped as soon as he saw the purple and orange shards of his pendant, set carefully in the middle of the padded box like it had been cleaned up. When had it broke? He hadn’t exactly been too attached it as of recently, so it wasn’t like anyone was taking it out of the box, right?

He had sworn he had seen it for a moment just last morning… had he broken it last night? Oh, no. He couldn’t recall what exactly had happened after the fifth drink… oh no oh no oh no. OH, NO. He couldn’t fix it himself, and like hell he would tell Caroline. She would divorce him in a second!

Not knowing what else to do, he tucked the box into his jacket and rushed out of the storefront, ignoring everyone’s usual warm greetings, and made it through the small square and over the bridge in record speed. On any other day he would have stormed right up to the redheaded cashier -Ruby, he thought her name was- smoking a cigarette outside of Jojamart and inquired about the ethicality of her corporate shill manager trying to run a small business into the ground. Then again, maybe he despised her so because he so desperately needed something to take his anger out on. He still felt a twinge of anger, but not enough to interrupt his panic routine, because this was not any ordinary day. This was the day he somehow managed to ruin his marriage more than he already had.

After a moment of staring her down, Pierre took a hard turn and walked south, around the bend to the blacksmith’s shop, and shoved the door open so hard it probably put a dent in the wall. Clint, who was asleep at the counter, jumped up, “Yoba!” His face shifted into its usual frown, “Oh. Uh. What can I do you for, Pierre?” He looked tired, and completely done with his shit. 

“Um…” He took the box out and slid it onto the counter. To Clint, Pierre probably looked like he might drop dead, brown eyes wide, broken into a nervous sweat, and knowing the man, it made him apprehensive to open the box. He cocked an eyebrow as he flipped it open, scanned over the contents for a moment, then gaped.

“Pierre, what in the  _ oblivion _ happened?” “I-I didn’t mean to!” “If it’s that bad, you really should start thinking about-” “No! No, I just- I was drunk and I-” Clint sighed exasperatedly, “You were drunk, and somehow that makes it better? You know you can’t solve your marriage by drinking your problems away, right? This wouldn’t have happened if-”

“You go to the saloon as much as me!” Pierre’s voice cracked. Clint rolled his eyes, “Yeah. Because I’m a depressed millennial who wants to see his friend who works there, sue me. You, sir, are a grown-ass man with a daughter and responsibilities, and instead of talking to your wife about your emotional issues, you act like a character in a silent French film and drink your sorrows away sorrows away.” 

Pierre blinked. Suffice to say, he was ever-so-inept at taking criticism, let alone a blatant insult. When he couldn’t come up with a retort that sounded good in his head, he just nudged the box further towards Clint, “Can you fix it? Or not?” 

Clint eyed it again for a moment or two, though he already knew his answer, “No. I’m sorry. It’s destroyed. And besides, it’s too small for me to work with. I would say your best bet is the Mariner.” 

“The Mariner?” Pierre narrowed his eyes, “You know I don’t buy into all that religious stuff.” “Neither do I, but the pendants are comin’ from somewhere. And besides, with everything that happens here, you find a ghost the weirdest?” 

Pierre wanted to protest, because he really didn’t believe, but Clint was right. There were forest spirits, tales of faeries, even the mine was infested with fantastical creatures, according to his own daughter. Not to mention the Casino run by a man rumored to be an alien just outside the valley. Small towns, he figured. Always something hidden under the surface. 

The Mariner in question was the foretold ghost of an old sailor- the tale went like this: he was returning to the coast to see his love and propose to her using a pendant he was gifted from a mermaid, or something like that. Pierre didn’t pay too much attention in theology class. It was customary in their small town, not to propose with a ring, but with a Mermaid’s Pendant, as Caroline had. It could only be acquired through the ghost of the Mariner, who appeared on the rock pool-littered side of the beach on stormy days. 

Normally, he would regard the whole thing as an old wive’s tale, but in his desperate state, Pierre thought it to be more of a gamble he would take. He left Clint’s shop in a hurry, only to realize that it was, in fact, clear as water outside, and that their hot summers didn’t permit for much rain. He went home and checked the weather. Tomorrow… still clear. He supposed he would just have to wait. He didn’t want to risk telling anyone else.

For the next few hours, Pierre waited at the house for Caroline to come home, feeling guiltier than ever. He passed the time by finding a decent hiding place for the pendant under the sink, showering, reading, cleaning, doing anything that interested him, and eventually getting bored. Being idle wasn’t a great option for his ADHD. Six o’clock rolled by, and him and Abigail ate dinner alone. Then seven, eight. Still no Caroline.

The guilt, anger and all of the resentment he had suddenly realized he’d built up against his wife took its toll on him, and without her there, Pierre found himself at the Saloon out of habit. It was a lot livelier on a Saturday night, surprisingly. He almost felt judged as he sat down at his usual spot and Gus, the bartender, shot him a concerned look. Despite that, he settled within a few minutes.

“Pierre!” Oh, no. That  _ voice.  _ That shrill, annoying voice that signaled his economic disparity. As if his day wasn’t bad enough already, he slowly turned to see Morris, the practitioner of the Jojamart running him out of business, and the  _ absolute _ bane of his existence, sitting only a barstool or two away from him. And, of course, after spotting his prey, he moved to sit next to him. Going in for the kill, Pierre thought, what humble brag or subtly veiled, infuriating insult would he be subjected to this time? 

“Let me buy you a drink,” Morris said, “You look like you need it.” Okay, not what he was expecting, but he still might have mal intent? Right? Normally, he would have questioned his motive of talking to him, made some snippy comment or left, but again, today was not any normal day. And, besides, it wasn’t as if the man didn’t owe him, so he bit with a curt nod. 

Morris held up two fingers to Gus, then turned back to him, “So, how are your sales going?” Oh, Yoba, here it comes. Pierre groaned internally, but tried to be light-hearted about it. More anger wouldn’t get him anywhere, “Why, you plotting a counter-sale?” He tried to force a dumb smile, but it expressed itself as more of a sneer. 

“Oh, no. I was fired,” He said, nonchalantly, just as Pierre had taken a huge swig of his drink, which he nearly spat out. Suddenly, his day seemed a great deal better. Still, though, he tried to be courteous.

“Why? Did they fire you, I mean?” Pierre didn’t apologize, but at least he showed some concern, which was appreciated.

“Why do you think?” Morris grinned, but his smile came off as a bit hurt. Fake. One of his prosthetic fangs was close to popping off, and it dug into his lip and fit there, as if he had been biting at it often. It was only then when Pierre noticed the shadows under his eyes, and the way his usually tamed black hair was sticking out at odd ends like it had been pulled at. He recalled that just six months ago Morris had been known as Mar ísa, and Abigail’s excitement at the change. 

He softened at the connection, and if only for tonight, he held back his comments about karma and supporting corporations, “Oh. That’s… that’s terrible. I’m sorry-” 

“You really don’t have to do the whole condolences thing,” Morris sighed, eyeing him over the rim of his drink, “I would be happy if I was you, too. But, they’re gonna ship in some replacement soon enough.” He paused, taking a long sip, “I knew it was coming. Now I’m just worried about Ruby and Lani.” Pierre gave him a look at the names, “Uh, my cashiers. They’re about your daughter’s age, college kids. Need someone to look after ‘em. Sam and Shane live here, but those two… I dunno. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.”

Pierre was a little surprised. He supposed he hadn’t considered the concept that Morris, despite their constant battle for customers and his overall personality, was, too, a human being with complex feelings and friends and sympathy. Maybe just not as much for him during the time they were rivals.

“Have you figured stuff out yet?” “Yeah, of course. I’m moving out of my apartment tomorrow. I guess you could say you’ll be seeing me around a lot more…”

“Did you get a job here?” Pierre raised an eyebrow, who would hire him? 

“I guess you could say that,” Morris grinned, a more genuine one this time. The other made a hand motion urging him to elaborate, “You know Z and Timmy?” 

“You did NOT.” Pierre laughed. Morris didn’t. “You’re moving onto the agricultural fund? What are you farming, the souls of the innocent?” 

“Pomegranates, I think? Apparently, Z has a surplus of them…” Pierre wondered if it would be too early to fill him in on the pomegranate mess. “I’m sure I’ll be fine planting things. I grew, like, a rose once. But enough about me,” Morris looked tired, “Tell me something that won’t make me depressed.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Pierre deadpanned, “My marriage is failing, I think my daughter blames me for it, aaaand that’s about it.” He held the smile. The way he said that was so casual, he would have been disgusted at his own words a year ago. 

“Jeez, man.” Morris smiled, if a bit awkwardly, because Pierre was, and he didn’t know another appropriate way to react, “Toast to going through it, I guess?” 

Pierre got back home around midnight, slightly toasty but overall fine. He hadn’t had much to drink, usually, he was left alone, but he had actually had someone to talk to, and it really helped. Even if he did just make bad jokes about his impending doom, to someone he still borderline hated, whom may or may not use that information against him in the future. He could care less.

When he got home, Caroline still wasn’t there. He supposed he couldn’t be mad at her, he was out at the same time, but the fact that she had up and left before he even woke up peeved him a little. He started to get ready for bed when the front door shut, so he waited. 

Eventually, Caroline came into their bedroom, and he got up to hug her, kiss her, whatever married couples were supposed to do. She walked around him. Pierre faltered for a moment, “Hey, how are you? I missed you today.” She stared at him, or maybe past him for a moment or two, as if to say ‘sure you did.’ An exasperated huff escaped her, “I’m tired.”

Caroline promptly threw her coat off and went to bed without saying another word to him, and Pierre was left wondering what he had said wrong. It was always his fault somehow. 


	2. end(?)

The next few days went like that: him trying to be nice, Caroline brushing him off like a minor inconvenience. But most of all, what bothered him was that EVERY. DAY. WAS. CLEAR. Maybe if he fixed the pendant, it would fix something in their relationship, too, but the sky refused to cooperate. Pierre was starting to lose hope for his relationship. It soon came back to him on the 23rd of summer, exactly five days after he broke the shell, in the form of rain knocking loudly against the window like a wake-up call. Just his luck, it was a Wednesday, when he closed, both because it was some of the townsfolk’s day of worship, and because he couldn’t afford to be open every day of the week. 

He skipped breakfast, threw on his jacket and tucked the box under his arm where he was now used to it being, and faced the pouring, heavy rain outside without a coat. It could have been before the sun even rose, it was raining so hard Pierre couldn’t tell. He assumed it was early, going on the fact that Caroline and Abigail were still fast asleep. The beach was just as violent. The waves crashed harder than he’d ever seen them against the docks and the shore, propelled wind that nearly blew his glasses off.

Perfect weather for ghosts, Pierre figured. 

He carefully crossed the concerningly thin, wooden plank of a ‘bridge’ connecting the two beaches. He couldn’t see much of anything, nearly keeling over in a tide pool the hard-hitting rain concealed. Maybe this was a bad idea. He kept walking, more towards the area where the beach met with the forest, and for a moment he caught sight of something. Or someone. It was only a flicker, then it was gone. Then, he saw something blue. Another flicker of black hair, a tall stature, but nothing concrete. He could almost see through it.

“Are you the Mariner?” Pierre had to yell to even hear his own voice. He felt stupid for a moment when nothing answered, but then a man, tall and thin with a torn blue shirt and a long black beard appeared only feet away from him. He wasn’t sure if the rain let up, or it was some sort of magic, but he could suddenly see and hear a lot better. He tried to make eye contact, but if he looked too hard at the man his image gave way, and he could see the grove of trees behind him clearly. It kind of made him sick.

“Yer married, lad,” The Mariner gave him a knowing smile, “I can’t help ya.” 

“Nonono- I don’t need a new one,” He reached into his jacket, and pulled out the box, flipping it open. Somehow, not a single raindrop landed inside. “I need you to fix mine, if you can.” 

The Mariner narrowed his eyes at the pieces, even held out a hand and brushed his fingers across a few, which Pierre would have thought impossible. He looked confused. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

“I didn’t make this, lad. It’s a fake. Definitely magic, but not mine.”

“What?” Pierre felt like he was on a wild goose chase, “Why would she need a fake?”

“Well…” The Mariner looked a little sympathetic, “I can only grant pendants to those who are in true love.” At that, the other’s heart dropped. Seeing the look on Pierre’s face, he stammered, “But I’m sure yer wife had some other reason. Maybe she couldn’t pay the price?” 

Pierre nodded. That had to be it, “Who made it, then?” Why was his voice shaking? Why did he feel so horrible about this? That sickening feeling in his stomach was back. He almost wanted to throw up. 

The Mariner studied the shell again, “Hm. It’s purple…” YES. IT IS PURPLE. WHY DID EVERYONE FEEL THE NEED TO SAY IT WAS PURPLE? HE HAD EYES. “It looks like the work of the Wizard. He’s the only other magic user ‘round these parts.” 

Pierre had heard of the Wizard, yes. But to hear the literal _ghost_ he had just met, and somehow wasn’t phased by, mention him, was unnerving. Today was a bad day for his secularity. He thanked the Mariner for his help and instructions, and continued on his seemingly endless quest as the sun fully rose. 

There was a thought in the back of his mind telling him he had been duped as he trekked past the ranch and the sculptor’s cottage, along the south river and through tall grass, all in the still unrelenting torrent of rain. Eventually, though, the sparse woods cleared enough for him to catch sight of a high tower in the distance, point sharp as a needle. He walked faster, around the oddly shaped cliff it stood on and finally, traversed the perfectly placed, unnecessarily high staircase leading up the hill to the… Wizard’s? Tower, ignoring the creak of his knees. 

It looked like something out of a fairy tale, or even a cartoon- made of huge slabs of stone, like a Jenga tower, the gaps big enough that the expanse of ivy clinging for life further and further up it could grow between them. The vines hung heavy with purple blooms that ever-so-slightly glittered the air with something gold. 

He knocked against the varnished, splintery oak door. There was a rustle, then someone called "Just a moment!" with a conciliatory voice he didn't recognize. 

Pierre sighed, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog, and tried to get the water (and now pollen) off of his glasses now that he was under the porch. A second later, the door cracked, held by a chain. Dark purple eyes glanced him over him hastily, then the door shut and latch clicked and a man, probably the Wizard in question, held it open, "Pierre! I've been expecting you."

"You have?" He cocked an eyebrow as he was ushered inside, the box still tucked his jacket, "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"I suppose not, but I've heard quite a lot about you," The man hummed, holding out a hand to him, "I am Rasmodius, but most call me M. It's very nice to finally make your acquaintance." 

He shook it cautiously. Ras-what now? What was this guy's deal? Pierre had half a mind to think this whole thing was somehow a practical joke, but as he looked at M, at least a foot taller than him, with springy purple hair and eyes to match, wearing black robes that dragged to the floor and impossible-looking jewelry, he started to doubt his own judgment. He almost felt inferior. 

The inside of the tower was weird, too. It was dimly lit, shelf after shelf of books and crystals he'd never seen before lining one of the walls. There was a huge, candle-littered rug on the floor with a symbol he didn't recognize and- for Yoba's sake, why was there a cauldron?! He realized he had been staring around like a madman when M leaned down to his height, looking at him as if he expected him to say something. 

Pierre cleared his throat, "I need you to-" "I know why you're here. I've already seen this event unfold," M interrupted, "You need me to fix the mermaid’s pendant. I did make it, by the way. I do hope it was at least convincing." 

He hadn’t handed the box to him, but he was already holding it by the time Pierre realized it was gone from his pocket. The Wizard took a long stride away from him and placed the box on a table adjacent to the cauldron. His heels clicked when he walked. He produced some sort of journal or book out of nowhere and scanned a dog eared page, then sent it back to wherever it came from, and flipped the box open. With a wave of his hand, he drew the shattered pieces out of their makeshift coffin, where they floated in midair. He circled his palm around the mass, as if shaping a ball of clay. The shards grew closer together, then closer, then they disappeared behind the swishy sleeve of his robe for a moment and landed in M’s palm. The pendant was whole again, though the colors might have been a bit off.

M came back over and tucked the necklace into Pierre’s hand, then looked at him almost apologetically, “I can mend any shell or stone,” He said softly. Weird flex, but okay. Pierre might have thanked him, but he kept talking, “But, I am afraid I cannot fix your other… issues.”

How did everyone know about things that weren’t their business in this damn town? “I just wanted to say…” He perked back up as M continued, “I did not know about your marriage. When it started, I mean. That’s no excuse, but I do hope you know I did not mean you any harm.” M squeezed his shoulder.

What did that even _mean?_ Pierre felt like half of what this guy was saying flew right over his head, but he thanked him anyways, and left in a hurry. 

It was only on the walk home, when the rain had cleared, that Pierre thought of what M had said to him again, and looked down at his pendant now tucked around his neck, as if it would give him an answer. He noticed that it had managed to turn a deeper purple, now the hue swirled from the far end of the shell up to the middle, and swallowed up the orange like a virus. He thought of how the violet had reminded him of Abigail when it broke.

Then, he recalled that he hadn’t seen his daughter dye her hair in at least two years, and some dumb, late night conversation she had with him while making ramen noodles about how the purple dye she bought at CVS must have been top quality, because her roots didn’t seem to change through the entirety of senior year. 

He thought of Caroline’s day trips to the south side of town, and how he had always assumed it was to go see Marnie. Her oddly placed bruises she blamed on anemia. 

Pierre began to shake. 

By the time he got home, it was around mid-morning. He stormed in, barely sparing a smile to Abigail before bursting into the sunroom Caroline was usually in when she wasn’t out. And he knew she wasn’t out, because, well… he was just where she would most likely be. Sure enough, she was sitting at a little table in the room sipping tea, without a care in the world. She raised an eyebrow at him when he came in.

He yanked the pendant off of his neck, though still careful enough as to not break the chain, and held it out in front of him, “What is this?” 

She gave him one of her hard, judgy stares, and it pissed him off. “You’re tracking mud in the house,” She sighed. 

“Caroline! What is this?!” He tried not to raise his voice, lowering it to more of a hushed hiss. Abigail was still in the house.

“A necklace?” Her eyes lowered into more of a glare, “What’s wrong with you lately?” 

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me is that I accidentally broke this, and I went through hell to get it fixed, and I talk to that ghost, and lo and behold! It’s not even REAL, he couldn’t give one to you! Cause apparently you didn’t love me enough?! And I thought… maybe it’s all a misunderstanding- I...” He ignored the tears brimming at his eyes, scrapping upsetting thought, “But, somehow, it got even worse! Cause the guy who actually made it knows you _very_ intimately, doesn’t he?!” 

Caroline paused for so long that it made him think she was shocked, that he might have jumped to conclusions like she had always said he did, and he was all wrong and he was the villain. _Please,_ just let him be the villain this time. But, instead of being wrong like he so desperately hoped for, Caroline placed down her cup and stood, inched a little closer to him. She took the pendant into her hand and ran her thumb along one of the curves filled deep with purple.

Time seemed to slow in the sun room.

“Twenty years,” She said, voice dull, “And this is the first time you notice something off? Are you _really_ that surprised? I gave you all of the signs. I never, ever loved you.” 

“Caroline…” Pierre choked back the tears as best he could. Everything hit him like a train, his last bit of hope that he was wrong torn to shreds, “What is wrong with you? Why? We have a family-” His voice broke, “We have a daughter!” 

“ _I_ have a daughter, Pierre.” She spat, and he recoiled as if she’d hit him. He shook his head, and quickly made his exit. Abigail had been leaning against the door, “Dad? What’s wrong?” He didn’t want to involve her, so he ignored her, too, and left the house as not to explode in front of his daughter. Walking outside, he caught stares. Of course he caught stares, he was crying like an idiot in the middle of town square, in a place where the most exciting gossip was usually someone’s new haircut, and everyone politely ignored things more serious. He opted to head for the trail he always used to walk along when his meds didn’t kick in fast enough or he just needed to take a breather, the one that the sidewalk to the right of his shop lead to, past the Community Center and the carpenter’s house. 

Pierre felt as if the weight of today’s events hadn’t fully hit him yet, and maybe he hadn’t been bracing for impact well enough. Every little glare, comment that made him uneasy, every twinge of jealousy over all the years had piled up to prepare him for this, but it still managed to hit him in the face when he wasn’t looking. 

He just wanted to fix the damn pendant. 

He was still crying, albeit on and off, when he was finally alone with the trees and the flowers, and found a drier spot under a tree to sit and think. Caroline’s words echoed in his head like a mantra. They bounced around his otherwise absent skull like a ping pong ball, echoing and panging with regret for everything he could have done to prevent this. How could he have messed up this badly? 

Soon, the tears turned to dry sobs, and his breaths turned to short gasps for air, deep and straining but still not producing enough oxygen. He curled into a tight little ball under the tree, and it was only then when he realized he had neglected to take his anxiety medication this morning. It probably wouldn’t have helped much, but it was still upsetting. 

He could have curled up and died right there, hyperventilated himself into passing out for the third time this week. He was so out of it that at first he didn’t notice someone talking to him, the gentle hand on his shoulder. Someone was telling him to take slower breaths. Breathe in deeply, wait five seconds, breathe out. He could barely hear them- the goddamn ringing in his ears was too loud- but he tried to listen, and slowly came back to clarity.

He sat up, and through the tears, saw that the one who helped him was Morris. He looked weird today. Well, no, he looked weird every day. He was wearing a sunhat, and had set down a covered basket next to where he had knelt in front of Pierre. So he hadn’t been lying. 

“Pierre? Can you hear me now?” Morris moved some of the now teary damp hair out of his face, pressing his palm to his forehead, “Are you okay?” 

Yeah, I’m fine, just ruined my own life, casual Wednesday, he thought, and promptly started to cry again. Great.

“Hey, hey, breathe.” Morris wrapped an arm around him, and Pierre hadn’t realized how touch-starved he had been until he did, “try not to make yourself more upset.” He sunk into his shoulder, and cried until he could level his breathing again, which didn’t take nearly as long as it would have on his own. Eventually, he managed to gather himself together enough to move away a little, clearing his throat, “Uh. Sorry.” His voice still cracked.

“It’s okay,” Morris smiled a little, one of those pitiful ones. Fake, again. It was still a nice sentiment. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Normally, he would say no. He didn’t talk about anything with anyone, and if he did, it was out of spontaneity, but, as it had proven to him again and again, this was not a normal day. Oblivion, this was not a normal week. 

“She cheated.” Pierre sniffled, “For a very, very long time. Long enough that Abby isn’t mine. She said she never loved me.” He shrugged, not even attempting to mask the devastation in his face, “So. I guess that’s it, then. I was never a good enough husband.” The tears started to surge back, “If I would have just-” 

“It’s _not_ your fault.” Morris put his hand on top of Pierre’s, and he hesitated. Somehow, that was all it took. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? No, no, it was definitely him. It was always him. “B-But I must have-” “She cheated. That’s on her. If she didn’t say outright she wasn’t happy, or talk to you about it, that’s not your fault.” 

“Oh.” He breathed, furrowing his brow, “I guess- I guess that does make sense.” He wanted to say something, a thank you, maybe, but just ended up leaning closer to the other.

Before he realized what was happening, he leaned in, and their lips brushed together briefly. Pierre didn’t even register it, or the hot feeling in his face, as a kiss for a moment because it had been so long since he had kissed someone and felt them mean it back. 

Morris was the first to pull back, looking mortified, “I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t-” But Pierre pulled him back and kissed him again, held him tight and didn't let go until he was light-headed and they both needed to catch their breath. He was more sure of it the second time, because, maybe this is what liking someone was _actually_ supposed to feel like. He had needed a refresher, and boy did it feel different, and _so_ much better than anything he had ever felt towards Caroline. 

Only an hour later, he found himself at the Mayor’s doorstep. He knocked, confident and sure of himself for once, and Lewis couldn’t even open the door fully to greet him before Pierre announced, “Good morning! I need to file for a divorce.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! This work was done for my creative writing class, hence me going to many extremes in terms of behavior, etc. Please take this with a grain of salt if you do not agree with my character interpretations, as always.


End file.
